


in this white wave

by something_pithy



Category: Celtic Mythology, Changeling: the Dreaming, Faerie Folklore, Irish Mythology, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst?, Deep Conflict, F/M, Faerie AU, Fucking Tags How Do They Work?, Still Kinda Dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:25:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_pithy/pseuds/something_pithy
Summary: It was King Kylo’s season, and he had been born to rule it. Blood of the Tuatha de Danaan ran in his veins, yes, but in addition to the most glorious of the sidhe,  the darkest of the Unseelie. He had been born to break the wheel and rebuild it anew, to rid the world of the systems and order that stifled it and bring the Unseelie back to power so that they could set the fae free once more.And he would be enjoying his victory -- the death of his twisted, decrepit master, his rightful place in the universe secured, the triumph of the Unseelie over the Seelie -- but for an impudent nocker, a tinkerer, a little no-one who had worked her way into his very soul.In which King Kylo of the Winter Court and Rey of the Summer Court struggle with the past, themselves, and their ferbidden Seelie/Unseelie luuuuuurve.





	1. Yule

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meritmut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/gifts), [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts), [politicalmamaduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmamaduck/gifts).



> So first of all, ALL of the thanks to my amazing beta for this fic, @aionimica, who is truly amazing. This fic is better for having met her, by tons. 
> 
> Title from "Silence" by Sarah McLachlan and Delerium.  
> The seed of this treat was always meant to be in parts, but I had no idea it would be so long.  
> I truly hope the lovelies whose requests inspired this savagery enjoy it! <3 
> 
> The Prompts: 
> 
> from @meritmut:  
> "I don't have specific prompts but I like fey/fairytale themes, the Force as cosmic magic and Force-sensitives as eldritch creatures, humour and angst and helpless tenderness from two touch-starved kids with abandonment issues, and the more of a character the landscape is the better :)"
> 
> Welp, idk about humor, but hopefully I hit some of these dope points. :D 
> 
> from @kimaracretak:  
> "- weird fey/fairytale/eldritch things (time behaving strangely, prophetic dreams/visions)  
> \- angst"
> 
> I hope I hit some of the marks? Though there is a surprise herein that I think will be appreciated.
> 
> from @politicalmamaduck:  
> "fairytale/mythology AUs"
> 
> I GOT U

By rights, he should be reveling in the dead of winter.

By rite of blood and bone and death, he had claimed the Unseelie throne, and now was king of the Sluagh sidhe (emperor, perhaps, as he ruled over the boggans, the ghille dhu, the redcaps, the river hags, the trolls, and more).

The fae were by nature changeable, and while most were allied with one court or the other, it was understood that they were all of them of two natures; few, however, were perfectly balanced, and it was the Court whose philosophy and practices best matched them to which they pledged their allegiance.

The Seelie, though, didn’t disappear in the bite of winter any more than the Unseelie vanished in the sweet of the summer. Rather they were sharper, perhaps less gracious, or perhaps less sincerely so. The winter revealed an honesty, King Kylo thought, that summer cloaked in comfort; camouflages of flowery words, sweet songs, and languor. Passions burned hotter in winter, as though to stave off the cold. Survival proved its priority over “honor,” and the season of death made room for upheaval, revolution -- change.

It was as it should be.

It was King Kylo’s season, and he had been born to rule it. Blood of the Tuatha de Danaan ran in his veins, yes, but in addition to the most glorious of the sidhe,  the darkest of the Unseelie. He had been born to break the wheel and rebuild it anew, to rid the world of the systems and order that stifled it and bring the Unseelie back to power so that they could set the fae free once more. 

And he would be enjoying his victory -- the death of his twisted, decrepit master, his rightful place in the universe secured, the triumph of the Unseelie over the Seelie -- but for an impudent nocker, a tinkerer, a little no-one who had worked her way into his very soul.

And now, at the height of his season, he could not forget her -- and she had taken flight, absconded with the most rigid of the Seelie, the ones who wouldn’t deign to associate with the Winter Court in all its savagery.

Of course, she was with his mother.

 


	2. Imbolc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the first signs of Spring start cracking through the ice. And noticings happen. :3

It wasn’t summer -- of course it wasn’t. But the very first stirrings of spring were afoot, subtle and small though they might be. And Rey felt it, along with the rest of the faction of the Seelie Court that had cloistered themselves away from the barbarous influence of the Unseelie for the winter.

 

(Now, it would occur to Rey from time to time that the Seelie Court got up to nearly the same barbarism that the Unseelie did in the winter, but they were certainly more polite about it, so maybe that made the difference.)

Imbolc had been a time of excitement for Rey since having joined the Seelie Court, but this one in particular had her venturing into the cold for nearly any excuse; they needed more yew for fletching, more stardust for the glamour engine, more snow to test the perpetual waterfall. Queen Leia never denied her; always saw her off with a sad, secret sort of smile. She never asked why she didn’t take Finn or Poe or Rose with her. Instead, she just said,

“Bring back news if you find it.”

And Rey always promised she would.

Outdoors, in the glittering white of winter, it was easy to spot the tall, dark king, clad in robes that flowed all around him like a swatch of night exposed by tearing away a patch of daylight.

He was not beautiful in the way the sidhe usually were. He was of the Tuatha de Danaan, like his mother and uncle and grandmother before him, but his blood was mixed, and so his features were not so sharp, not so thin and fine and regal as his mother’s side. The common heritage showed through in his ears, his prominent nose, his too-full lips. (She’d once screwed up the courage to ask his father if he really was a nocker, too, but he’d only laughed and winked at her.)

And maybe it was because she was a nocker that she thought that his strangeness made him even more beautiful; one time, in a dream, he’d nearly smiled at her and she’d smiled back so wide she’d thought her face would crack. 

He shouldn’t be out here, alone in the quiet, glimmering dawn. He should be on his throne, she thought, ruling over all the chaos and abandon and madness that was the Winter Court. 

But then, she should be tucked safely away inside, waiting for spring to truly come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> You can send me asks, requests, or just wander around aimlessly at my tumblr: [something-pithy.tumblr.com](http://something-pithy.tumblr.com).


	3. Ostara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Winter ends, Spring begins, and there are more noticings. :3

His mother was resplendent; clad in a shimmering white gown that covered her from the neck down, the drape and float of the fabric hinting at the fullness of her body, silver-grey-brown hair braided intricately, bound up and around her crown. The Summer Queen had taken up the habit of showing her age in the winter months. It was the season of the Crone, and she showed it in the lines in her face, in the slow, deliberate pace of her movements, the generosity of her figure. Today, however, she would begin the process of reversing it, hair darkening, skin smoothing, frame slimming to Maiden by Midsummer. Kylo knew his mother did this for her people; Leia had never much cared for the trappings of youth and beauty, but a Queen had her duties. 

He often thought his mother would rather have been a general. 

But a general she was not (at least not in title). Instead, she was a Queen -- and of course, at her side, leading the shining procession of sidhe, was Lady Amilyn: hair glamoured to bright blue waves that promised summer sea and sky, contrasting perfectly with the white of her artfully draped gown. Today, Leia’s Court would begin its waxing, as the Winter Court would begin its waning. 

Such was the way of things.

When his father had yet lived, not-yet-King Kylo had hated how little regard Solo had had for the ceremony of it. It wasn’t the irreverence that grated on him; it was that Ostara was one of the few times during the year that they might be together as a family, and the Royal Consort (oh, Han Solo had not liked that title) had often enough opted out, busy on business in other kingdoms across the world. He’d brought back all the exotic trinkets a boy could have wanted, from every realm imaginable, but never gave his son what he’d truly needed.

The resentment was fuel, though.

It would have been difficult to resist his mother’s smile, to refrain from smiling back, taking her hand, brushing formality aside to simply hold her -- be held by her -- despite their separate courts, separate lives. Such divisions had not always mattered; the Summer and Winter Courts had been playful, once, had teased and winked their “enmity” for each other, had fought and loved lustily and well, but only with thoughts of victory and defeat, never of survival and annihilation.

But that had been long before King Kylo’s grandfather had soaked the fields of the Dreaming with the blood of the Seelie -- and this offense after having been one of the Summer Court’s most venerated knights. After he’d betrayed one of the most sacred tenets of the Seelie Court -- Love Conquers All -- in the very pursuit of fulfilling it.

It had all changed by the time Kylo had killed his first father, and was undiminished by the murder of his second.

The schism between the Courts was now barbed with blades and blood -- the searing hatred that burned away hope for harmony to bitter ash.

This was how he managed to take his mother’s small, graceful hand in his, raise it to his lips, and release it again without breaking. This was how he could execute his bow -- formal, almost mockingly so -- so perfectly. There was a flash of something in her eyes that made something knot in his throat, but before he could untie it, she had nodded and curtseyed to him, murmuring words that had been spoken by the ascending Seelie ruler to the descending Unseelie every year for all time. 

It was only his Court’s habit of defiance that won his silence acceptance as his part fulfilled.

It felt very much as if it had been over before it started.

As he watched her walk away, her entourage impeccably outfitted, his gaze darkened. She was surrounded by the the most elegant nobles of her Court, all of them as gloriously beautiful as they should be, glittering with star gems and glimmerdust, moonsilks and gossamer. Among them, he couldn’t help but notice the comparatively plain little nocker who’d split him in two, who’d made everything uncertain. 

Slender, often looking on the edge of underfed, she seemed to disdain the trappings of the Court, content to remain in the functional garb of her people despite her new, elevated status. Even now, in a ceremonial procession, she wore her arm wraps, breeches, and sleeveless tunic. Her concession to formality seemed to be the flowing overtunic she wore; it could never be mistaken for a gown, but its two wide, pleated strips of translucent moonsilk crossed over her chest, floating around her legs. The effect might be a bit romantic if not for her work boots and the utilitarian belt that bound it at the waist. That every piece of the ensemble was in the same shimmering white of the Queen’s entourage helped somewhat, he supposed. 

But while the rest of the Seelie courtiers followed their Queen in perfect grace, eyes always forward, the nocker (Rey, he couldn’t pretend not to remember her name) cast wide-eyed glances over her shoulder at him, at his scar, meeting his eyes artlessly, pity for his wound in her gaze.

Long after she was gone, he still wondered which scars she was mourning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> You can send me asks, requests, or just wander around aimlessly at my tumblr: [something-pithy.tumblr.com](http://something-pithy.tumblr.com).


	4. Beltane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Springtime!

Rey’s laughter rang out across the dale, joyous and unabashed and vibrant as she and Finn and Rose and Poe got tangled up in the maypole. Finn was laughing, too, while Poe rolled his eyes -- but Rey saw the twitch of his lips and the mischief in his look. Rose, meanwhile, was smiling, yes, but also already working out how to untangle them. The light was just beginning to wane, the sky shifting to a bit pink.

“Oooh, the feast is going to start soon,” Finn said, his grin enthusiastic. Rose laughed at him.

“Start?” she asked. “There’s been feasting all day!”

“That was the  _ luncheon  _ feast,” Finn said pointedly, almost solemnly.

“And the brunch feast,” Poe noted.

“And the breakfast feast,” Rey added.

“Can you really call it a breakfast feast if nobody’s stopped eating for the past week?” Rose asked.

“Well, I suppose not,” Rey conceded with a grin. 

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Finn interjected, bringing things back to the very serious matter at hand, “this’ll be the  _ dinner _ feast. On  _ actual  _ Beltane. So it’ll be the biggest feast of all!” 

Rey’s eyes were lit with excitement. In theory, every Seelie from boggan to pooka to piskie to nixie to sprite feasted on Beltane, but the truth of it was, nockers weren’t usually ones to get fussed about eating and drinking -- making, finding, building, and creating were the true marks of a nocker celebration. As a changeling, though, Rey had known the most profound hunger when lost in the mortal realm, and so the discovery of her true home, with all its gastronomical wonders, was still a source of great joy for her. 

Rose, however, was no changeling. Rather, she’d been born and raised a nocker, but she and her sisters had been slaves to the Unseelie in their youth. As such, she was a bit more skeptical about all the  _ celebrating _ . 

It made sense to Rey -- and truth be told, Rey agreed with Rose, that the Seelie should focus on the suffering of those fae who were far from the glittering glory of the Court. But Rey thought they could have both -- the celebrating and the liberating of those fae who were bound and lost and twisted away from their true natures. 

That thought brought her to King Kylo, who was leading his Court to the lands of darkness, the Underhills, which, though still a part of Tír na nÓg, were less easily reached by the sun and light of Spring and Summer.

Theirs had been a great battle; it was absurd that Rey, untrained and untested at the time, had emerged from it unscathed while King Kylo, a great and powerful warrior, had left it with more than one scar.

What was more absurd than that was that sometimes, in the deep of the night, his voice hummed through her, as though he was speaking from somewhere inside her. 

That sometimes, she whispered back.

At first, she’d thought she was going mad. She’d been afraid to tell the Queen, or even her new friends, for fear they’d determine her too damaged by her years away from the Court to live among them; that they’d banish her to mortal world again, or worse, to the Winter Court. 

But he didn’t whisper malevolence or violence, nor, truly, seduction or manipulation. 

He spoke to her of loneliness, of the quiet of the dark, of engines that ran on glamour and piskie dust; now and then of poetry, and once, in the deepest whispers, of the softness of his mother’s hair. 

And she’d been content to name herself mad, at least in her own heart. 

But in the days just before Beltane, as his dark Court gathered for its exodus to the shadowy lands they occupied in the time of the Seelie, she saw him; just a glimpse, just for a moment. And he saw her, too -- though not just a glimpse, not just a glance. He held her gaze, the ink black of his eyes keen, watchful, perhaps a little mournful. But she saw in them, for the briefest breath, a spark of knowledge, of hope.

She was undone.

Her flight toward the light was immediate and immersive; games, feasts, music, dancing, laughter. And if she saw an ebon silhouette out of the corner of her eye in the whirl of color and glitter and glamour of the Seelie’s feasts of life and love and wonder, she neither spoke nor sang nor thought of it in the light of day. And if that silhouette haunted her dreams, or if under the silver gleam of the moon, in a different, stranger realm, she floated into darker lands than she ought, then that was between her and Queen Mab -- and perhaps another monarch altogether.

“ _ Rey!” _

It was Finn’s voice that brought her back from her reverie -- though as she started with a blink, her friends looked more amused than concerned. 

“I guess even nockers are given to daydreaming on Beltane,” Poe said with a grin. 

“Nockers don’t  _ daydream _ ,” Rose corrected him. “We  _ brainstorm _ .”

“Yeah, well, I’m  _ brainstorming _ about candied tulips and moonbeam wine,” Finn said, motioning them toward the Palace of Ildathach, luminous even from this distance. “Let’s  _ go _ !” 

Rey was glad she could write the pink in her cheeks off as the embarrassment of her distraction -- or that really, it didn’t seem that her friends had noticed it at all. She went with them to the palace, floating into the merriment of the mood, setting aside her dreams until later, in the cool dark of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> You can send me asks, requests, or just wander around aimlessly at my tumblr: [something-pithy.tumblr.com](http://something-pithy.tumblr.com).


	5. Litha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a Midsummer Night's Dream. :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... this chapter is about the length of all the other chapters so far... combined. O.O
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

In all the lands of the fae, Midsummer was refulgent -- from Tír Tairngire to Tír fo Thuinn, Mag Mell to Ildathach and Emain Ablach, nearly all of the kith and kinfolk were lost in their revels. Joy and love and beauty won the day, though at night, it might be noted that the dual nature of all the People slinked in, wildness and excess overtaking the dance, the drink, the music, the tales, the games of love and lust, valor and glory, that characterized the youthful abandon of the feast day. All fae, Seelie and Unseelie alike, tended to at least make an appearance on this night, and it was known that on Midsummer Night, all manner of merry mischief could come to bear.

As for King Kylo, his mood was as foul as it could have been. 

For weeks, he had stalked the Palace of the Underhills, simply a dark presence to be avoided at first. As the time passed, however, the outbursts began, worse than in any year prior, and all but the most devoted members of his Court did all they could to escape his notice. His temper became more violent as the weeks marched on, and though his power waned in these cursed summer months, he was still the greatest of the Unseelie. Any warrior could be subject to challenge at any moment, his attacks brutal and bloody and merciless.

He would fight and smash and destroy until his opponents or the underground treasures of his court or entire wings of the palace were demolished, then weave unsteadily to his bed, the neck of a flagon of redcap moonshine or sluagh lightning wine or whatever other spirits were available in his fist, eventually collapsing into oblivion.

He searched for her in his dreams -- in the twisted, eldritch places Mab kept for the Unseelie, the stuff of mortal nightmares. But of course, why would  _ she  _ be in such places? The thought made him scoff to himself even in the land of Nod, knowing, as he did, that a creature of light would never deign to visit such dark realms. 

Except he knew she did -- knew she had. She denied herself. She denied  _ him _ . 

He’d seen nothing of her since Beltane; she was doubtless whirling in merriment, laughter and sunlight, honeysuckle wine and bluebell nectar. No doubt she was being wooed by the effete dandies of the Summer Court, for she was a novelty, and there was nothing the Seelie loved more than a novelty, except for the sticks up their own arses. 

And of course, she had forgotten him -- or worse, had shut him out, wanting only the unmitigated fluff that was spring and summer and warmth and  _ light _ .

It was thoughts such as these that had led him into too brutal a battle today. He  _ knew --  _ of course he knew! -- of the whispers in his Court. Of the ambition of the razor-grinned courtiers who had begun to wonder if he could still lead -- or rather, if he was weak enough to perhaps be replaced. 

He had shown them, and shown them well.

Six redcaps, a sluagh enchantress, three savage tiger pooka and the chimera they’d set after him. They’d be collecting the pieces of them all for weeks. 

He had not emerged unscathed, but he never did; pain and blood were part of his power, and he did little to avoid or deny them. 

So here, in his chambers, still drunk, still raging, he bled from wounds too deep to quickly heal, poisoned from that fucking sluagh blade, and a ragged gash from a redcap axe that later, he’d acknowledge as a bit of genius. 

He felt sluggish -- some part of him knew he was bleeding too much, that he should try to heal himself. But such matters had never been his area of expertise, and he couldn’t be stuffed to summon one of the few healers who’d remained in the Underhills for Litha. 

The physical pain was a distraction from deeper aches, and it was serving its purpose.

Until  _ she _ appeared.

He knew he must look a sight -- pale, bloodless, shirtless, the gashes in his chest and side likely resembling slashes of vermillion blooms against winter fields. He smirked at his own poetry.

The expression curved into something more maliciously satisfied at her expression.

She was magnificent, of course. For Litha, someone -- most likely Amilyn, he thought bitterly -- had managed to get her into a gown, and it was shimmersilk in the vibrant, bright green of summer’s peak. It floated around her, as it should, revealing bare legs and feet. She still wore those arm wraps, though they, too, were shimmersilk, though in a lighter shade of green. Her skin was sun-kissed and golden, her hair braided intricately (he suspected Amilyn’s hand in that, as well). The only thing marring the perfect vision of her Midsummer glory was the wide-eyed horror with which she gaped at him. 

His smile was more a sneer now as it broadened. 

“Well, well, well,” he said, a deep rasp in his voice. He wasn’t slurring, but there was certainly more of a drawl to his speech than usual. “Look who’s come for a visit.”

“What happened to you?” she asked urgently, moving toward him, looking at his wounds even as he bled onto the dark velvet of the armchair in his sitting room. 

His flip retort died on his lips as she touched his face, smoothed his hair back from his brow with slender fingers. Instead he looked up at her, as mesmerized by her glow as he was resentful of it. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, inhaling the scent of her -- under the blooms of summer, sandalwood and sunshine and her own particular hue of glamour. He turned his face, his lips brushing the inside of her wrist.

“Ben, what happened?” she repeated softly, tipping his face up, presumably to have a better look at it. He felt her light touch skim over a deep, ugly bruise. 

“Don’t call me that,” he murmured thickly, his hand rising to hold hers against his cheek. “Where have you been?” 

He couldn’t tell if she knew her thumb was stroking his cheekbone; he didn’t want to open his eyes, see her pity, see her disappointment. The look in her eyes when she answered. If she answered. 

He could hear the strange look she must be giving him in her voice. 

“Mag Mell, mostly,” she said. “Tír Tairngire sometimes. Emain Ablach.”

She said the last almost absently, and she felt her free hand tracing over the skin of his throat where a burn from a thin rope of spidersilk marred his pale flesh. A slight frown curved his lips. An answer without an answer. But before he could demand more, she spoke again. 

“Ben, you’re hurt badly,” she said, more urgency in her tone. She was closer now; he felt the warmth of her radiating against his skin, almost touching. 

“I told you not to call me that,” he snapped, his eyes opening -- though he did not pull away from her. 

She was close -- he could see the smattering of freckles high on her cheeks, the blush of her lips -- the flush that rose in her cheeks and the flash of anger in her eyes at his tone. 

“And I told you you’ve been hurt badly!” she snapped back. “You could bleed to death here!”

She wrinkled her nose. “And you’re  _ drunk _ !” 

Even still, her hands were still on him -- she did pull the one on his cheek away to skim both palms over his shoulders, as though searching for what was cut, torn, or broken.

_ As his mother had, or was it Amilyn, when he was a boy. _

“Oh, has the Seelie’s pretense of propriety now come to exclude drink?” he sneered, watching her as her eyes roved over his body. 

Her eyes closed for a moment, but when they opened, she scowled at him. “Only if the person drinking is a belligerent sot bent on getting himself killed!”

He snorted, sliding rough fingertips over her wrist as her hands still rested on his shoulders. 

“Hardly,” he smirked. “Our people aren’t so easy to kill as your little mortals.” 

Her jaw went tight and she pulled her hands away from him. 

“I suppose you’re just a belligerent sot, then,” she told him as she waved her hand, twisting her wrist in the air as though plucking a fruit from a tree.

In her hand appeared a Summer peach, ripe and fragrant and glimmering with the magic of sidhe orchards.

“Eat this,” she said, holding it out to him. 

Whatever else he was, at the moment, he absolutely was a belligerent sot. He looked up at her, eyes heavy-lidded. 

“Why should I?” he asked mutinously. Her scowl deepened.

“Because you’re bleeding from at least seven different places, as far as I can tell; the only healing I know is Summer magic, and you’re the Winter King, so this will make it easier,” she retorted, her impatience evident in every line of her body.

It brought a slow smile to his face. 

“And why should a sweet, innocent Summer changeling care to heal the monstrous, depraved Winter King?” he asked mockingly, shifting in his seat to better see the color deepen in her cheeks.

“That’s your story, not mine,” she snapped back. 

“Is it?” he said, his smirk not reaching his eyes, now. “I seem to remember you calling me a monster not so long ago. What’s changed?” 

She took a deep breath; he could see her trying to find her center, trying to calm herself. 

“I’m trying to  _ help _ you,” she pointed out, clearly trying to sound reasonable. 

“And I want to know  _ why _ ,” he replied simply, as though his voice didn’t sound as though it’d been raked over broken glass, as though he weren’t bleeding out onto his ornate seat, as though he didn’t ache for her to put her hands back on him. At this point, he didn’t care if it was in healing or harm. 

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head, holding the peach in both hands, but careful -- so careful -- not to bruise it.

“Because you’re not a monster,” she said finally, quietly. “Because there is light and love and good in you, and everyone deserves to be given those when they’re hurt.” 

He sucked in a breath as though she’d struck him. Her earnestness and sincerity were an affront; her guileless, plainspoken confession pierced him in a way no Pooka claw or arrow ever could have, and it should have infuriated him for her to insult him this way.

Instead, he reached up, the languor of blood loss clear in the movement. Instead, she moved closer again, put a hand on his shoulder, and held the fruit to his lips. 

He looked up at her; he rested the hand he’d extended on her wrist instead. 

His gaze never breaking from hers, he took a bite of the peach, sweet juice slicking his lips, sliding over his tongue. As he sucked the flesh into his mouth, he saw her eyes darken, her own lips part before she blinked. 

His lips curved into a ghost of a smile before he took another bite, and so it was: he ate in silence, taking a final bite with half of the peach still left, then licking the nectar from his lips. Once he’d swallowed, he spoke, his voice already a bit smoother. 

“There,” he said. “Now do your work.”

She frowned at him.   
  
“There’s still half of it left,” she admonished. 

“And I am no sweet Summer child to eat the whole of a fruit from an enemy Court,” he said, though there was gentleness, perhaps regret, to his tone. 

“Must we be enemies, then?” she asked softly, still holding the glistening, half-consumed fruit in her hand, her eyes on him.

He looked at her for a long moment. 

“No,” he said finally. “No, I don't suppose we do.” 

Suddenly, weariness leeched the life from his bones and he sat back in the armchair, closing his eyes. “What I ate should be enough for you to do your work.” 

He heard the whisper of magic in the air as he imagined she sent the fruit back from whence it came. Surprisingly, her hands were smooth, clean, warm when he felt them -- one on his chest, over his heart, the other on his shoulder.

“This will hurt,” she warned him. “I’m more used to repairing machines than people.”

His lips curved. 

“I can take it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> You can send me asks, requests, or just wander around aimlessly at my tumblr: [something-pithy.tumblr.com](http://something-pithy.tumblr.com).


	6. Lughnasadh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Summer begins to wane, and there is strife. 
> 
> Kind of like Labor Day weekend for the Fae. If the Fae were into labor. :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another long one, though I don't think quite as long as the last one.

The longest days of summer were behind them, but the Summer Court were still in their glory. There was something more mature to it now, the energy less brazen and brash -- more sidelong, sloe-eyed glances and secret smiles, slower songs, more languid movements. As the days remained warm but slowly got just a bit shorter, there was a sense of fullness as the time of the harvest approached.

With the giddiness of Midsummer behind her, Rey had been content once more with her breeches and tunic (though for now, her breeches ended at her knees and her feet remained bare). Her hair, though, she wore loose for the first time. It seemed longer than she remembered it being, fuller, falling past her shoulders in waves. She looked at herself in the mirror and didn’t quite recognize herself.

With the festival approaching, feeling awkward and unsure and after much deliberation, Rey found her way to Lady Amilyn and Queen Leia’s salon, lips pressed together, toes curling into the smooth, shining stone of the floor as she waited for the attendant at the door.

Lughnasadh was a feast of culmination, of the beginning of the end; the bounty of earth, sea, and sky were offered up; the shy flirtation, sweet infatuation, and fiery passion of Ostara, Beltane, and Litha mellowed into subtler, more thorough, balanced sentiments -- no less powerful, but rather more manageable, she supposed.

Or at least, so she’d been told.

Lughnasadh was also the time that marked the first signs of the Unseelie Court’s return to power, which meant that King Kylo would be returning to the surface in a few short weeks. She found herself aching to see him in person; since Midsummer, they’d found each other in dreams, had spoken in their soft whispers. She’d checked on his wounds and something in his harsh, angry demeanor had softened a bit, she thought. They still argued from time to time, but it seemed almost amicable by comparison to their previous rows. All the Seelie, even her dear friends, had been curious, at first, as to whether Rey would have a summer love, but after Midsummer, they’d stopped asking and whispering and instead gave her and each other sly, knowing smiles.

Secret lovers were a matter for all seasons, it seemed.

But she and King Kylo were _not_ lovers. Sometimes, she caught him looking at her in a way that brought heat to her cheeks, and others, she found herself unable to look away from the breadth of his shoulders, the grace of his brutality when they sparred, or sometimes, just his mouth. More than once, he’d caught her staring, and had looked back at her quizzically, as though he couldn’t imagine what she’d been thinking about.

She wondered, sometimes, if his obliviousness to his own appeal was a function of him being of the Winter Court, or if it was just him.

No matter. While it wasn’t customary for the Winter Court to participate fully in Lughnasadh, it certainly wasn’t unheard of for them to make an appearance, and if he -- if they -- did, she wanted it to be… to be…

Well, she didn’t know what she wanted it to be, but she wanted to be prepared.

In any case, it didn’t really matter, did it? In days long past, amorous relationships, even marriages, between the Summer and Winter Courts were hardly rare -- though few people seemed to talk about that anymore. But the piskies, wild though they were, liked telling her tales in their tiny, quick little voices, and Beebee and Artoo had, during Beltane, told her of Queen Titania and King Oberon, who’d ruled the Seelie and Unseelie Courts respectively, and though they quarrelled, were very much in love.

The more recent -- and notorious -- example was the far darker story of the Seelie knight who had turned to Unseelie magic to save his sidhe Queen. The Aziza named Maz had told her of it at Midsummer.

Thoughts of those doomed lovers gave Rey a chill, and it was hard not to think of the Unseelie King, of the softness he’d begun to show her, despite the great evil she’d known him to have committed. That he still committed.

After she’d left him Midsummer night, she’d realized that not all of the blood spilt that night had been his. In fact, most of it probably hadn’t been.

“Rey?”

Perhaps fortunately, her dark thoughts were interrupted by the bright warmth of Amilyn’s smile, matched by her wavy locks of sunset hair. She, like Queen Leia, matched her glamour to the season, and she glowed on the cusp of feminine fruition. No longer girlish, womanhood fully realized, but with the flush of youth still at her cheeks and lips, she was radiant in a salmon gown that left her arms bare, the skirt long, layered, and in panels in moonsilk that parted to reveal glimpses of bare legs and feet when she moved. For a moment, Rey was a bit mesmerized.

“Uh -- oh. Sorry. Yes, hi,” she said, her own cheeks flushing now with her embarrassment. The attendant who’d gone inside to announce her had returned with Amilyn, and was grinning impishly at her post.

“Let her in, Amilyn, before she forgets how to speak!”

There was a grin in Queen Leia’s voice, and it was followed by Amilyn’s laughter.

“Of course, love,” Amilyn grinned, then stepped further inside, gracefully extending her arm to invite Rey in. She was tall and elegant and remarkably refined, and though Rey tended not to think overmuch about her own physical appearance, Rey felt a bit squat next to her. She wrinkled her nose a bit with a slight, sheepish smile as she walked into the Queen’s sitting room.

It was, Poe had told her, the more informal space where she received guests and spent her leisure time. All the fae seemed to spend more of their time in leisure during the summer months, even the ever-working Queen. But even though there was a moebius board with tiny, colorful, moving figures on it that was clearly in play, Rey noticed that a small stack of parchment had begun to form on the table next to the end of the settee.

Rey had visited this room before; when she’d found her way into Tír na nÓg, after some confusion and a few… misunderstandings, she’d been brought to the Queen, who had in turn taken Rey under her wing.

(It perhaps hadn’t helped that Rey’s relationship with the former Royal Consort had started out much more… colorfully, but that was another story.) 

Even still, despite the familiarity of the room, she never had quite gotten used to the idea that it was “informal”. The walls of the room resembled a ring of trees, at once dense enough to block sight from the outside world, but with tall, ornate gilded windows framed with stained glass on all sides (nocker work, Lady Amilyn had told her when she’d asked, fascinated by how the glass stayed within the glass purely by fit, rather than magical fixative). Sunlight also came from above, filtered in through the leaves of the trees, though Rey knew that when the Queen chose for it to rain, the room was protected by a field that shimmered with each raindrop.

The furniture was elegant and complemented the color scheme that had been chosen for the season (Rey was sure Amilyn was responsible), and, Rey knew, sublimely comfortable.

Queen Leia had stood from the moebius board to greet her, and Rey still blinked at her, too. The transition of an elder Leia to a Maiden had been gradual, but then it hadn’t. She’d somehow seamlessly moved from Crone to Maiden without touching the archetype of Mother in between. But now she was in the same liminal space as Amilyn, and her beauty was just as breathtaking. Their styles were largely divergent; she wore her waist-length hair loose but for two braids twisted around each other serving to hold it back from her face. She, too, wore a summer gown, though hers was simpler, sleeveless in goldenrod that whispered across the floor, seeming almost to move around her legs of its own accord.

For a moment, Rey was struck for the first time by her resemblance to King Kylo -- to Ben. It wasn’t obvious or the first thing that would strike one looking at either of them, but it was something about the cant of her head, the sharp intelligence but genuine interest in her eyes -- something about the eyes.

For a moment, her heart beat too fast. She felt him; she felt him there, and it took everything she had not to turn around to look for him. As it was, she was sure there was a Ben-shaped shadow at the corner of her field of vision, and it made her press her lips together. Having Leia and Amilyn see her reacting to a Ben, a King Kylo, whom they could not see -- no.

The mad thought to confess tore at her. It felt wrong -- wrong to return their generosity, their invitation into their world, their kindness with what felt more and more like a betrayal.

She felt a tremor in her chest. She pressed her lips together and took a breath.

The shadow shifted.

Leia smiled at Rey, her eyes narrowing slightly as she canted her head to one side. Amilyn took a seat on the settee, her expression warm and curious.

“What can we do for you today?” Leia asked.

It wasn’t a royal “we”; Leia and Amilyn knew this was a personal visit, and one to the both of them.

“Well… I just…” she cleared her throat. Today was not the day. Now was not the time. The echo of Kylo-Ben resonated in her head -- it wasn’t the warmth and … fondness that she’d become accustomed to from him. No, he was getting angry.

That made things quite a bit easier, actually. Instead of equivocating, she straightened up, took a breath, and pushed the shadow out of her mind -- and out of her sight.

This was her tangle to unravel, and she’d do it in her own time, thankyouverymuch. Turning her full focus to the Queen and her Lady, she smiled awkwardly.

“Well, this is going to sound a bit stupid, but I’ve no idea what to wear for the festival, and -- well, I know it’s an important occasion, so I probably oughtn’t wear my work boots and breeches, and… well, I’ve never been good at dresses. Or really any of this,” she gestured to her clothes.

Leia grinned knowingly, casting a sidelong glance at Amilyn, whose smile indicated she’d been thoroughly endeared.

“Well, my girl, I think we might be able to work something out.”

***

It had taken no time at all for Amilyn to outfit her for the day. Lughsadh was a different affair from Litha -- less mad revelry, more communal, familial. Though this feast marked the slow start of the slide into Autumn, the atmosphere was still warm, playful, and celebratory, but more relaxed -- perhaps a bit more mature. To suit the occasion, Amilyn had gathered up the front half of rey’s hair, pulling it back in a simple, single plait, and letting the rest of it fall loose around her shoulders. Her dress, too, was simple; reminiscent of her customary overtunic that criss-crossed her body, but instead of strips of fabric that floated around her breeches, it was a full dress that parted around her legs much as Amilyn’s did, but shorter, and so better suited to her height as it fell just past her knees.

Normally, Rey would feel it was a bit scandalous, but having seen the fey’s customary Summer attire (and often enough, lack thereof), it felt somehow just right.

The sun was slowly sinking lower in the sky, and Rey had left the party for a walk by the sea. She’d spent the day laughing, eating, and drinking with friends, and the shadow had not reappeared. But now, as twilight approached, she felt it -- him -- calmer than before, perhaps, but she felt his emotions simmering under the surface.

Now, she turned to the shadow, and when she did, there he was -- Ben. King Kylo. He stood before her, looking out over the water as the surf rolled into the shore, his arms crossed over his chest.

“How much longer will you deny me?” he asked, his voice low, quiet.

“What have I denied you?” she asked, looking at his profile. He didn’t turn toward her.

“Not that kind of denial,” he said, his lips pulling into a bit of a frown. She paused for a moment, brow furrowed. Then,

“You mean your mother?”

He sneered.

“Your Queen. Her consort. Will you keep this your dark little secret while you play the innocent to them?”

Her brows rose.

“Oh really?” she asked. “And I suppose you’ve happily informed your Court of -- of whatever this is?”

He turned to her, his lip curling with disgust.

“I have never denied you. Whenever you’ve come to me, I have answered -- left the door open. I wished to let you manage your own affairs, but if not for that, I would announce it to the world, and burn anyone who dared gainsay us.”

She scowled up at him.

“Easy to say for a King,” she shot back. “You’ve nothing to lose in the kingdom you’ve won through blood and conquest. You would force them to accept your choices, but I haven’t that luxury. I don’t want that luxury.”

“Because the Summer Court is built on hypocrisy and falsehood,” he retorted, his tone dripping with disgust.

Heat rose to her cheeks and wrath began to boil in her chest.

“You’re confusing your own Court for mine,” she said.

“Am I?”

He laughed mirthlessly.

“Which Court is ruled by a Queen who married a criminal with no sense of honor, then simply pretended he didn’t exist when he revealed his true nature? So quick to take up with an appropriate Seelie Consort that her Court could get behind.”

It was as though he’d slapped her. That he’d have the audacity to even speak of his father after -- after --

“You shut up!” Rey ground out. “Your father was a good man, and your mother loved him!”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand. I know she loved him. And far be it from me to paint him the victim -- he had no compunction whatsoever about abandoning his family as soon as he felt the slightest discomfort. But how long did your noble Queen wait for her husband to return? How hard did she try?”

“You have no right to speak this way,” she said, her voice rising. “You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

“Wasn’t I?” he smirked. “You seem to be so taken with replacing your own parents with Leia and Han that you’ve forgotten they were mine first.”

She took a deep, ragged breath, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“You… you are a spoiled, ungrateful, brutal creature,” she hissed at him. “You grew up a _prince_ . You were the heir to the Summer Court, to all of Faerie, if you had but wanted it. He loved you. She loves you still! Do you know what I would have given to have parents like them? To have had parents _at all_?

Another smirk.

“I see that the mortal realm taught you well to believe in fairy tales,” he said. “Unfortunate that you’ve learned nothing in your time with the source material.”

Her lips parted to say - to say - she didn't know what. But before she'd figured it out, he’d turned from her, and was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's what I was able to finish before the deadline!
> 
> But never fear, the last two chapters are outlined, with snippets of dialogue and notes and an end in sight. I'll actually try to have them up tonight. ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> You can send me asks, requests, or just wander around aimlessly at my tumblr: [something-pithy.tumblr.com](http://something-pithy.tumblr.com).


	7. Mabon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of Autumn! In which there is eavesdropping, confession, and thinking things through.

She was weeping.

He could feel it. 

For weeks, he had felt the turmoil in her. He hadn’t seen her -- she was still able to block him at least that much. But since their last meeting, rather than distance growing between them, he felt her all the more acutely. 

But then, he was King, and his power was waxing now. 

The tension she’d been radiating for the past few weeks seemed to mount as Mabon approached. Bitterly, he supposed the thought of being in closer proximity to him must truly repulse her. 

She was withdrawn, snappish, and went off by herself to the sea, surprisingly, over and over again. 

The temptation to go to her was strong. At Ludhnasadh, it had already been easy enough to come to the surface; now, on Mabon, when the power of Summer and Winter were equal, it would be nothing. 

But to what end? He had no need to prove his dominion over this land; he was the Winter King. To see her? Convince her of the truth she refused to acknowledge? Try to win her love?   
  
No. He was no lovesick Summer swain; if their time together meant nothing to her, if she would not even meet him halfway by telling his mother and Amilyn of their bond, then he would not beg. 

That she was ashamed of him made his fists clench at his sides even as something hollowed in the pit of his stomach.

Even so, he could not help but feel her. Severing the bond didn’t seem to be an option, and even if it were --

Shutting her out only worked when he was doing so consciously, particularly since he’d returned to the surface. The proximity made her presence all the clearer, and so it wasn’t a surprise that on Mabon, he could see her and his mother’s private salon without even trying. 

What he did not expect was Rey on her knees, head in Amilyn’s lap, Leia sitting close, hand on her shoulder as she wept.

“I’m sorry,” she kept saying, over and over. His lips twisted bitterly. As though they were the ones who deserved an apology. Neither Amilyn nor his mother looked surprised, or angry, or even disappointed, and it made him wonder what he’d just walked in on.

“Rey,” Leia said, gently stroking Rey’s shoulder with her thumb. “Did you really think we didn’t at least suspect?” 

At this, Rey lifted her head, eyes red and wide, cheeks tearstained, mouth open in a slight “o.” Had his fists not been clenched at the scene, at her tears, that she was being comforted by Amilyn and Leia instead of  _ him _ , he might have half-smiled at the show of naivete. 

As it stood, he wet his lips and pressed them together. 

“You knew?” she asked. No longer muffled by Amilyn’s lap, her voice was hoarse and soft. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Amilyn smiled and tucked a lock of Rey’s dark hair behind her ear. 

“Because despite what the Winter Court believes, we are still of the People, and it is not for us to keep you in chains,” Leia told her.

“And perhaps we hoped that this might help begin to heal the divisions between the realms,” Amilyn added, wiping a tear from her cheek.

“I… I love him, I think,” she confessed quietly, wetly, tipping her face into Amilyn’s touch. 

He froze. If he were a better man, he would have shut off the connection. He would have left. Cast a spell to ensure it was blocked until at least he slept.

She loved him. She thought. Loved him.

He was not a better man.

“But -- I’m so -- I’m so angry at him. He doesn’t understand anything -- he hates everyone here, and wants me to do the same, but he’s  _ wrong _ . 

“He said awful things,” Rey confessed quietly.

“What sorts of things?” Leia asked. 

“Things about… about you, and Han, and… and Amilyn,” she said, looking from one woman to the other. 

“Let me guess,” Leia seemed to sigh. “About my hypocrisy, Han’s lack of honor, my choosing to be with Amilyn for political reasons?” 

Kylo’s lip curled at his mother’s tone, his fists clenched harder. He had half a mind to leave them to their gossip and twisting of words, but he couldn’t seem to move his feet. 

“Something like that,” Rey said, wiping her eyes. 

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Leia confessed heavily. “Except for the part about Amilyn.” 

Kylo’s eyes widened slightly, and he wet his lips. 

“No, ours is a love match,” Amilyn agreed, lightly touching Rey’s shoulder, which she seemed to take as a signal to turn around. Amilyn began separating the nocker’s hair into sections. “But Han always was a bit of a scoundrel. He wasn’t totally without honor, though.” 

“No,” Leia agreed, sitting back on the settee, looking weary, despite her youthful mien. “He hid it well often enough, though. Ben never forgave him for leaving, and I’m not sure I did, either, until it was well over between us.”   


Kylo almost scoffed, but something stopped him. He looked at his mother, the unguarded expression, the sadness and loss in the lines of her posture. Amilyn slid one hand over Leia’s and squeezed.   
  
He looked away to Rey, who was looking at Leia over her shoulder. The conflict was written all over her face as Amilyn continued calmly preparing her hair for braiding.     


“There is light in him, but he’s so resentful,” Rey said finally. He clenched his jaw. Doubtless his mother and her lover would fawn and mourn and try to recruit Rey to win him back to the Summer.

“Just as there is darkness in you, sunshine,” Amilyn said, nimbly sliding one lock of hair over the other. “And in me. And in all of us.”   
  
Kylo paused. Blinked. As did Rey.

“What?” she said.

“Too long have we denied our natures,” Leia explained. “We are none of us purely one or the other.”

“But… but he is cruel,” Rey countered. Kylo sneered at the childish accusation; then his mother spoke again.    
  
“We are all of us cruel when we are in pain. To each other; to ourselves. What are the tenets of the Summer Court, Rey?”

“Death before dishonor; love conquers all; beauty is life; never forget a debt,” Rey recited faithfully.

“Very good. Do you know the tenets of the Winter Court?”

Rey shook her head. Kylo watched his mother closely as she sat up once more and began to speak.   
  
“The tenets of the Winter Court are as follows: change is good. Glamour is free. Honor is a lie. Passion before duty.”

He watched Rey’s brow furrow, watched her process this.

“But… ought they not be the opposite of ours?” she asked.

Amilyn smiled, fastening the end of one braid to move on to another. 

“How could they be, if we are all Fae, and must all live together?”

Rey looked up at Amilyn, and Leia half-smiled.

“It doesn’t seem so right now, but right now our world is out of balance. The only true contention between the Summer and Winter Courts, traditionally, has been --”

“Honor,” Kylo and Rey spoke the word at the same time, and though his mother and Amilyn seemed not to notice, Rey’s gaze snapped to him, and she sucked in a breath. 

Before she could speak again, he was gone, back in the shadowy halls of the Winter Palace in Tech Duinn, alone, his heart beating faster than he would admit.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. His mother had always been brilliant and well-read, as had Amilyn. But he was reeling -- reeling from their knowledge, their perspective, their wisdom. 

As a child, he’d longed for his mother, followed her when he could, pined for her when he couldn’t. Often enough, he couldn’t. The work of the Summer Queen, at least as his mother saw it, was not simply ceremonial. There was diplomatic work to try to unite the kithain, all the many and varied types of fae. There were meetings and tourneys and secret work to which he’d been denied access. With his father gone, and his mother so busy, for a time, Lady Amilyn had been a great comfort to him. Had held him, played with him, taught him. 

But then, the betrayal. That his mother and Amilyn became lovers surprised no one; that Leia named Amilyn her Consort still less. But Amilyn, then, left him, too. As she became more involved with his mother, she became more involved with politics, he fell by the wayside. They sent him to his uncle to be trained as a knight, and after that, what more use did they have for him?

Despite what Rey thought, he had never been heir to the Summer Court; his mother had been nowhere near the end of her reign, and such choices were to be made based on merit rather than blood. Of course, the Summer Fae would likely have a tourney, the matter settled under pretenses of honor and duty, but he imagined that time was far off. 

The Summer Court had been everything to them, or so he’d thought. The exemplar of what all Fae should always be.

But they didn’t speak so, now.

For a moment, he could almost taste that Summer peach on his lips; he licked at them, thinking of the little nocker who was changing everything. 

And change was good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter is almost done, I think! Maybe!
> 
> Thank you all for your super lovely comments, kudos, and encouragement! I'm so glad you're all enjoying! <3
> 
> You can send me asks, requests, or just wander around aimlessly at my tumblr: [something-pithy.tumblr.com](http://something-pithy.tumblr.com).


	8. Samhain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Winter Court shines, and an end is a beginning. <3

She had ignored him at the Mabon processional, as was her wont.

No one had thought anything of it; the changing of the guard, particularly from Summer to Autumn, was typically a somber affair. 

She had dressed formally for the occasion; with each passing ceremony, Amilyn taught her a bit more how to outfit herself without pretending she was something she wasn’t. Amilyn had intricately woven her long hair into braids upon braids; by the end of it, the style looked almost like a headdress, shot through with strands of gold, orange, and red star silk, glimmering in the light. In honor of the coming chill, she’d worn a deep crimson, long jacket over her amber tunic, apricot breeches, umber belt and boots. 

She had felt his eyes on her, and she refused to return his gaze, though color rose to his cheeks. 

How much had he heard? What did he know? 

Seeing him in that salon had stopped her heart, and she was unprepared to face him, naked to the knowledge he now had of her heart. 

It wasn’t until she’d passed him in the processional that she finally looked at him in all his glory.

It had been a mistake.

He was beautiful and terrible, his winter crown a mere circlet on his brow, his ebon hair wild and inviting. He was covered from neck to foot in a deep grey tunic embellished with thread that looked wrought from steel, deep grey star moonstones, and black pearls. He was radiant with power, his skin pale and luminous, his form ageless, broad, powerful, graceful. 

She swallowed.

He caught her gaze before she could look away. His lips curved in as close a thing as he would come to a smile here and now, she thought.

If running wouldn’t have shamed her entire court, run she would have.

As it was, she’d been grateful that few of the Summer Court would stay for the revels, so there had been no reason for her not to go immediately with her friends to the Seelie palace in the Underhills.

There, she’d suffered one of many restless nights, haunted by fever dreams of the Winter King that left her breathless, her heart pounding too hard in her chest, and roused in more ways than she cared to admit.

It went on like this. 

His power was waxing, now, the Summer Court’s waning, and it felt as though she could not escape the Winter King no matter her best efforts. 

Time, though, had her thinking of the Queen and her Lady’s words; the tenets of the Courts. Purity. And the unspoken lesson of balance.

It was this that had her emerging from the Underhills on Samhain. While many of the Summer Court departed for the Underhills at Mabon, still more stayed at least until Samhain, the true end of warmth. Some asserted that it was a matter of duty… but most knew, whether they admitted it or not, that it was because Samhain was perhaps the greatest revel of the Winter Court, so her presence wouldn’t be taken as terribly strange.

She hoped.

Emerging from one of the portals between the realms, Rey straightened her clothes. Tonight, she wore burgundy accented with gold; an overtunic that whirled around her when she turned, snug breeches tucked into high black boots, her hair half-loose, half-bound, braids threaded through with golden shimmering thread.

Tonight, she’d even glamoured color to her face; burgundy lips, black-limned eyes, gold on her eyelids.

She felt strange, but Leia and Amilyn had nodded approvingly; Amilyn had even offered to put gold and burgundy streaks in her hair, but Rey hadn’t been ready to go so far. 

The veil was thin tonight, and many of the Fae had put on their best glamours for a trip into the realms of men. For her part, Rey was content to stay in the Otherworld -- she’d seen enough of the mortal world for one lifetime, she thought. Her reticence, however, began to subside as she walked through the kingdom. Twilight had long fallen, but faerie light and torches lit the way, with all manner of the People dancing, cackling, parading through the streets. 

She found herself wending her way toward the Winter Palace, but on her way she was grabbed up by a faun who whirled her around and around. Before she’d even managed to shriek, much less separate the man from the goat, she heard that all-too familiar voice.

“I’d recommend putting her down, Lord Pan. The lady is significantly more powerful than she appears.”

Almost instantly, she was back on her feet, albeit a bit wobbly as such, and the faun was bowing deeply to her -- though not looking entirely apologetic. 

“My deepest apologies, my dear lady. I was simply swept up in the moment. I hope you can find it in your sweet heart to forgive me,” he said with a sharp smile. 

Rey frowned at him, pursing her lips. 

“What makes you think I have a sweet heart?” 

To her consternation, the creature, who had, she noticed, a bit of a strange accent, laughed. 

“Ah, I see the spirit of the season has filled it, then!” he said. “How exquisite!”

Rey wrinkled her nose, but the satyr had turned to the Winter King, and was now bowing deeply to him. 

“A thousand pardons, Your Majesty,” he said, though a smile still curved his lips. “By your leave, I shall find a more appropriate dance partner.” 

Arching a brow, Kylo turned his gaze to Rey, who shrugged with a nod.

“Very well, then,” the King allowed, then, though his eyes were still on Rey. “Be free. But mind your manners, Sir Faun, as not all are so kind as this summer lady.”

“But of course, Majesty,” the satyr replied with a grin before disappearing into the crowd as though he’d never been there.

That left Rey alone in said crowd with the Winter King. 

Kylo.

Ben.

She wet her lips.

“Hello,” she said, then pressed her lips together.

“Hello,” he said, in nearly the same tone, though his lips were a bit curved, and full as ever. 

“You know it’s rude to eavesdrop,” she said suddenly, with a frown. 

He had the good grace to show not a hint of a smile or smirk as he bowed deeply.

“So it is,” he replied. 

“And you were cruel last time we spoke,” she told him. He arched a brow. 

“So I was,” he admitted, not bowing this time, though he seemed a bit closer than he had before. 

She looked up at him almost mutinously before she lowered her gaze.

“I was… perhaps… less kind than I could have been,” she confessed.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, taking another step closer. 

“But honor is important to me,” she said insistently, “and so --.”

“You love me,” he said simply, without smugness or humility, moving closer still.

Her cheeks flushed. 

“That’s not the point --” she began. 

“And I love you,” he continued. 

“-- and It is very rude to interrupt --” she accused vehemently, cheeks bright red, before her brain stammered to a halt, then rolled back to what he’d just said. “Wait, you --”

“love you,” he repeated. “At least, that’s the only explanation I can come up with for how mad you drive me without diminishing my desire to be near you in the least.” 

She looked up at him, because he was so close now that she had to do so to meet his eyes. So close that she caught the scent of him -- winter storms and evergreens, a hint of nightblooms and the sea, and something else under it all that was distinctly him. Subtle and clean and tempting, all of it -- like he was made to be something infinitely desirable and impossible to hold. 

She scowled at the flowery thoughts.

“I won’t join your Court,” she said immediately, her eyes narrowing up at him.

He smiled sardonically.

“I’d assumed as much,” he replied. 

“And I won’t betray my own,” she continued. “Honor is important to me.”

“Of course it is,” he said, bowing his head in acknowledgment. 

“Don’t patronize me!” she said, putting her hand on his chest and pushing at him. 

He didn’t move.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said sincerely, looking into her eyes. “If I had wanted someone who shared my every thought, desire, and belief, I think I could have had a much easier time over the past season cycle, don’t you?” 

She squinted up at him.

“I suppose so,” she conceded. 

“I will never be a Summer swain,” he warned. “I am the Winter King, and Unseelie, through and through.”

Now it was her turn to arch a brow. “Through and through, hm?” she asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his brow furrowing now.

“I think you might be a bit of a poet, is all,” she told him.

Her hand hadn’t moved from his chest, and she was stroking her thumb unconsciously over his heart.

He scoffed. “Do not expect such Summer trifles from me,” he dismissed. 

“Of course,” she said, a smile beginning to curve her lips, finally. “You are no ‘sweet summer child,’ after all.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, then, without warning, swept her up in her arms. 

She shrieked in a very unmusical, unladylike way, smacking his chest.

“I think it’s time you found what it is to have the Winter King for a lover,” he told her as he began to carry her toward the palace.

“I have no lover,” she declared primly, swinging her legs and looking at the ground over his shoulder. 

“You are excessively tall,” she told him decisively. 

“Perhaps you are excessively short,” he told her, continuing to carry her as if she weighed nothing.

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “I am, in fact, above average height for a nocker.

“Psht,” he scoffed back. “That’s like saying you’re above average height for a mouse.” 

She smacked his shoulder. “You are so rude,” she exclaimed crossly.

“I am honest,” he corrected her, stepping onto the air, now gliding effortlessly through the sky. “Now when we get to the palace, there are some fruits I think you might like to acquaint yourself with…”

She squinted at him, reaching up to his jaw to turn his gaze toward her. 

“Is that right?” she asked, looking at his mouth.

“It is,” he said, a smile starting to curve his lips.

“Maybe half,” she allowed, then leaned up to kiss him.

She was almost certain she felt him grin as he kissed her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many thanks to all of you who've read, given kudos, left comments, and given your support!
> 
> I can't give shout-outs until reveal time, but in the meantime, I thought I'd share my sources!
> 
> The world in this story was built with the help of Irish, Scottish, and more general Celtic mythology, as well as a few nods to broader world mythology because Star Wars. ;)
> 
> If you were wondering if Lord Pan was a crossover cameo, he was! :D <3
> 
> Further, essential to the mechanics of this world was Changeling: the Dreaming, a 90s RPG from the White Wolf gaming studio. I've had an interest in the Fae from pretty much babyhood, but White Wolf/Changeling created a world and system for them that made it much easier to write about them in this way. 
> 
> I definitely didn't go purist here, but hopefully you enjoyed the mishmash I went with! :D ;)
> 
> Anyway, thank you again for reading! I had a lot of fun with this. And big ups to the Reylo Anthology, and their delightful fic exchange!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> You can send me asks, requests, or just wander around aimlessly at my tumblr: [something-pithy.tumblr.com](http://something-pithy.tumblr.com).


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